The new suppressor cuff was cold on Alan's wrist, slightly sleeker than its predecessor, its internal runes feeling more like a snug, cool film than a crushing weight. The chest monitor was smaller, a discreet black patch, only vibrating faintly when active. Yet Alan knew these "improved" devices offered tighter control and deeper surveillance. They were invisible shackles, constant reminders of his "Contractor" status and the weight of the magical pact.
Grandfather's care had been moved to a more secure, advanced Warden medical wing. Alan could only visit briefly, under Lena's watchful eye, peering through thick observation glass at the still, pale figure connected to life support. Seeing him like that made the charred parchment in Alan's inner pocket feel unbearably heavy. The Epping Forest clue was right there, locked away by Thorne's contract and the cold electronics. He needed power, opportunity, and crucially—information! The attackers, the ones who stole the sandalwood box, were Ouroboros! Only by uncovering them could he find Grandfather's secret, maybe even a way to wake him!
After the library mission, Alan was granted a brief "respite"—filled with intensified, grueling "customized" training. Master Arnold's meditation sessions remained a frustrating dead end; the academic approach clashed with his innate power. Lena's combat drills became merciless, demanding perfection. Sweat, bruises, and frustration were his daily fare. Fenrir occasionally lurked at the training ground's edge, arms crossed, his gaze a mix of scorn, confusion, and lingering awe, punctuated by derisive snorts. Alan ignored him, channeling humiliation into grim determination. He had to get stronger.
Days later, aching from another session of being thrown around by Lena, Alan received her icy summons via comm: "Consultant Shaw. Briefing room. Now."
The briefing room was small, soundproofed, screen-lined. Lena and Simon were waiting. Simon looked wired, dark circles under his eyes, fingers dancing over multiple holographic data displays. Fenrir leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, giving Alan only a dismissive glance and a grunt when he entered.
Lena wasted no time. The main screen lit up with complex energy waveforms, London's subterranean map, and snippets of encrypted comms—all linked to the "Entropy Gel" signature from the "Bai Cao Tang" attack.
"Based on the Entropy Gel residue," Lena stated crisply, "Simon has continued tracking relevant transactions and energy signatures within London's underground black market."
Simon jumped in, words tumbling out. "Yeah! That stuff's got a signature like a neon sign in the Anima spectrum! Took some doing—busted through seven layers of dynamic encryption and a dozen honeypots—but I found a key breadcrumb in a deepnet black market forum's garbage data stream!" He enlarged a blurry, reposted screenshot of an encrypted post. The poster's ID was gibberish, but the content used the slang term "Blackwater Paste" for Entropy Gel and included a transaction confirmation sigil. Crucially, a reply below had a pixelated mole digging icon as an avatar, ID: "MoleOnTheMove, GenuineGoods".
"That's him!" Simon pointed excitedly at the mole icon. "Codename: 'The Mole'! Notorious info broker and contraband middleman in the London underworld! Deals in everything shady, from smuggled artifacts to forbidden alchemy recipes! Ghosts around the old sewer maze like a literal rodent!"
The screen switched to a complex 3D map of London's antiquated underbelly, vast areas marked "Abandoned" or "Structurally Unsound." Several red dots pulsed in a tangled knot of old drainage pipes near the East End/City fringe.
"Cross-referencing The Mole's past traces and energy spoor," Simon continued, tracing paths on the map, "plus fuzzy reports from vagrants and urban explorers, I've pinned his likely haunts and a semi-stable route! Right here! If Ouroboros wanted Entropy Gel, using a local fixer like The Mole is the fastest route! He *must* have buyer info, or at least know how they connected!"
Alan's pulse quickened. Finally! A direct lead to Ouroboros! Find this Mole, find out who attacked Grandfather!
"Mission objective." Lena's gaze swept over them, lingering fractionally on Alan. "Locate and safely apprehend the information broker known as 'The Mole.' Extract intelligence regarding the buyer of the Entropy Gel—identity, contact, any relevant leads. Operational Area: Core Abandoned Sections, London Subterranean Drainage System. Codename: 'Earthmover'."
"Sewers?" Fenrir wrinkled his nose, disgust plain on his face. He cracked his thick neck.
"Stinking rat warrens! You want me crawling through that?" His primal aversion to filth and confinement was palpable.
"It's the assignment," Lena stated flatly. "Your senses are key assets down there. Simon provides tech support and nav. Alan…" She looked at him, assessing. "Your perception may aid in detecting traps or tracking energy residue. The suppressor may also mitigate some ambient corruption."
Alan nodded silently. Being used as a sensor stung, but it was a chance to get closer to the truth!
"Plan of action." Lena zoomed in on the map. "Entry via this disused Victorian pumping station (marked by a green arrow). Simon's predictive path places The Mole most likely near 'Cross Junction' (a repurposed cistern serving as an illicit bazaar, dense red dots) or hiding in nearby pipe networks. Priority: Stealth and containment. Avoid engaging other denizens. Fenrir leads—danger sense and pathfinding. Simon centers—real-time nav and environmental scans. Alan and I flank—perimeter security and target acquisition. On contact, I lead interrogation. Fenrir handles physical restraint. Simon, electronic countermeasures. Alan… provide support as required." The emphasis on "as required" underscored her lingering doubts about his reliability.
"Gear." Lena gestured to open equipment crates in the corner. "Standard waterproof tactical suits (basic stab-resistant lining), high-lumen headlamps (IR/UV capable), filtration respirators (H2S, CH4, low-level miasma), micro kinetic barrier projectors (critical areas only), encrypted comms, and…" She held up coin-sized silver devices. "Environmental scanner beacons (Simon Special)—detect life signs, energy flux, trap signatures."
Fenrir scoffed but grabbed the largest suit and respirator. Simon eagerly began calibrating his scanner beacons and portable holo-projector. Alan moved to the crates. The tactical suit felt cold and heavy, the rubber smell of the respirator sharp. Shackles and tickets to the underworld.
"Risk level: Medium-High," Lena concluded. "Environment: Complex, unstable structures, unknown Anima corruption pockets, mutated fauna, potential hostiles (other black marketeers, rogue Animates). The Mole likely possesses countermeasures or traps. Maintain high alert. Follow orders. Move out to entry point in one hour."
Back in his room, Alan donned the gear. The grey-black suit clung tightly, slightly restricting. The respirator hung around his neck, smelling of rubber and chemicals. He touched the charred parchment in his pocket. Hold on, Grandfather. He took a deep breath, adjusted the suppressor for comfort, and stepped out.
One hour later. Edge of London's East End. A derelict Victorian pumping station, surrounded by rusted fencing and overgrown weeds.
The sky was leaden, the air thick with industrial grime and damp decay. The pump house was a crumbling ruin, brickwork choked with dead vines. Heavy iron doors were long gone, leaving a gaping, fetid maw. A potent stench of rust, rot, and excrement assaulted them, penetrating even the respirators, making eyes water.
Fenrir stood ready, a hulking figure in oversized tactical gear, radiating impatience. His respirator hid most of his face, leaving only amber-glowing eyes visible in the gloom, fixed on the stinking entrance with a low growl. His alloy knuckle-dusters gleamed dully. Simon fussed with his tech-laden backpack and scanning devices, muttering data checks. Lena performed a final gear and comms check, her posture sharp even in the bulky suit, her ice-blue eyes cool behind the respirator's visor.
"Comms check," Lena's voice came through the earpieces, steady.
"Fenrir. Copy," came the muffled, irritable reply.
"Simon online! Signal strong! Scanners hot!" Simon's voice was tense but eager.
"Alan. Copy," Alan responded, voice distorted by the mask.
"Fenrir, point. Stay sharp. Simon, nav and scan. Alan, focus on anomalous energy and life signs. Move." Lena ordered.
Fenrir snarled and ducked into the reeking darkness first, his night-adapted eyes invaluable. Simon took a deep breath (filtered) and followed. Alan met Lena's gaze; a slight nod (or instruction to proceed). Suppressing revulsion, he bent and entered the maw.
Inside the pump house was cavernous, filled with rusted machinery and debris. Their headlamps cut swathes through the thick dust and cobwebs, illuminating slick, sludgy floors. The stench intensified, a suffocating cocktail of decay. The air was damp, cold, subterranean.
Past the derelict machinery lay the true entrance: a downward-sloping, massive bricked tunnel, easily ten feet in diameter. Its walls were thick with slimy, dark green moss and unidentifiable ooze. Murky water flowed sluggishly at the bottom, ankle-deep. Only their lights pierced the profound darkness ahead. The silence was heavy, broken only by their footsteps, amplified breathing, and the slosh of water.
This was London's buried, festering artery. Alan's suppressor cuff vibrated faintly, registering the ambient, discordant Anima pollution—industrial waste, sewage, death residue, dark ritual echoes—a miasma of decay. He focused, trying to push past the cuff's dampening and the environmental noise, seeking traces of The Mole… or any hostile gaze.
"Path confirmed. Descend main tunnel three hundred meters to first junction," Simon's voice echoed nervously in the comms. "Life signs… faint heat sources ahead fifty meters, small colony… likely rats. Energy readings… baseline corruption, low level. Status: Green."
Fenrir took point, senses hyper-alert, nostrils flaring to sift information from the stench, ears pricked for the slightest sound. His steps were deliberate, but Alan could feel the coiled tension in the werewolf's frame. Even the fierce predator felt the oppressive weight of the subterranean realm.
The team trudged downward into the sludge, headlamps bobbing like fireflies in the gut of a leviathan. The darkness pressed in, thick and cloying. The hunt for The Mole, the quest to unearth the truth of the assault, plunged deeper into the reeking, lightless abyss. Every step was a venture into the unknown.